Unexpected
by MirrorMyThoughts
Summary: Smirks barely hid the danger. Implied onesided Pan/Emma.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Okay, so I can't help it, I saw tension between Pan and Emma and this happened. Only, I felt creepy, because Pan's so young… so I tried to make it less creepy… by playing of the fact that Pan is in fact older than all of them, but it's still creepy. Sorry.

~O~

Meeting her was different, so very different, from how he thought it would be. She hadn't hesitated to flick her wrist; changing the angle on the knife, as she surged forwards, invading his personal space with a rough sort of force that no one had _dared_ try with him in _years_. And she didn't even realise, her eyes were steel—as was her tone, as she'd _demanded_ the whereabouts of her son.

He hadn't expected the shiver, part fear, part pleasure, that tingled down his spine.

It was odd. And so _very_ unexpected.

The boy—Henry—had been a certainty. A true believer, with a heart that pulsed and flared like a beacon, and now he was here; in Neverland, and Pan was unsure how he ever could have missed him. How he could have _ever_ thought anyone else would have owned such a heart. Impossible.

But this woman, something about her—something unique and wholly unexpected, captured his interest like lighting, sudden and bright and _dangerous._ A tongue darted out, trailing along his bottom lip at the thought. She was beautiful too, in an unconventional way, as her appearance—soft and fair—became rougher around the edges, the fierceness of her spirit chasing away flawless statuesque beauty and morphed it into a living, and breathing, _surviving_ masterpiece.

Pan could appreciate the roughness; the fire that bubbled and spluttered under the surface, until it couldn't be contained.

He rolled his head backwards against the tree, arching his neck and baring his throat to the world. A breeze, hesitant in its undertaking, licked across his skin. His lashes fluttered shut, feeling not a breeze but a blade against his skin. The hands that held him immobile, one crossed across his chest the other poised by his ear; the sharp sting of metal acting as a bridge between the them, never shook. Not once did a tremor ripple through her fingers, not once did the hand that pressed him to the tree lessen its pressure. He trailed a finger, slender and smooth, across his neck. Had their encounter left a mark? Perhaps a thin red—though more likely pink in its fading anger—line now marred his skin. A spark of pleasure jolted along his nerves.

The memory of her warmed his chest, his mind recalling the heat of another pressed against him. The thrill of danger tinged with—he would say desire were it not a foolish notion, the woman was barely more than a girl and beyond that, when compared to his own life, little more than a babe still struggling to steady the feet beneath her—excitement. He remembered each point of contact, her hand; fingers and palm, her forearm, study and solid across his chest…

He exhaled.

This certainly wasn't part of his plan but he couldn't just _ignore her_… she was hanging around with the _pirate_ after all. A feeling of distaste rose quickly at the mere thought and all of a sudden Pan wasn't _playing_ anymore. A masterpiece such as she didn't belong in the grubby hands of _thieves_.

With little more than a thought Pan rolled to his feet, the movement graceful in its effortless execution. The branch upon which he'd been perched barely bowed under the shift in weight.

For now, though he loathed to concede any form of defeat—even if it was merely for the moment as he waited for the correct time—he'd allow the pirate the sizzling presence of the woman a little while longer. Henry was more important. He hadn't waited all these years to succumb to the distractions of a _woman_. This was why he collected the lost _boys_. Boys didn't crash through his forest, with eyes that carried storms, and an unflinching, unwavering determination that lit a fire in his blood. _Boys_ didn't move in ways that personified the very idea of the word _challenge_ and _defiance _and _strength_.

But until he was through with Henry, he'd push this _Emma_ to her limits, tug at her sanity, uncurl the promise from her lips until he can poke and prod at the darkness he senses lingering just beneath the surface. He'd find out exactly what she was made of—explore how much of a _lost girl_ she truly was…

Neverland has always welcomed survivors, and Pan had always enjoyed testing their resolve.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Everyone's reviews were really, really, lovely. Thank you so much. I guess this chapter is partially your fault :P

It really was _supposed_ to be a one shot, but well… this kind of wouldn't leave me alone. I'll keep the overall thing set as complete… but I'm not ruling out the possibility of other chapters popping up… Sorry I can't be more informative than that… Anyway, I hope you enjoy this other little creepy look at Pan :P

_~O~_

_Hmm._ It seemed he really hadn't thought this through.

Henry's unwillingness to cooperate, while fun and _breath taking_ in its innocence, was _mildly_ irritating. It shouldn't have been; the time it would take to sway the boy's loyalties would be insignificant in the greater scheme of things. Time was ever so fluid and _infinite_—yet something about him, the resistance boiling behind dark irises so reminiscent of another, burrowed its way deep under Pans skin. The need to lash out, to use older—tried and tested—methods, to sway the youngsters mind was almost tangible. He could almost taste the fear he could inspire.

Years previous Pan had brought the very Dark One to his knees, and once again even more recently with little more than a child's toy to remind the old man of his place; knelt in the dirt at Pans feet.

But Henry was different; _breaking _him would serve little purpose. He didn't need any more broken toys—though the downward spiral, exquisite in its destructive glory, was almost too tantalising to resist. Pan could almost picture the boy's eyes as the obscene sparkle diminished with each passing day, as Neverland latched onto the bright shining beacon of light and _sucked_ it dry.

He forcefully shook his head. No, no matter how tempting—he had other plans for dear Henry… what's the point in extinguishing a fire, if its warmth only serves to remind you how cold and gloomy and _hopeless_ the darkness can _really _be. After all, it is the _shadows_ that inspire terror… or so Pan would presume, shadows had long been simply an extra reflection to him; exposing the side watery mirrors couldn't quite seem to capture.

So instead of indulging in childish whims; urges to tease, and taunt and hurt and _break_, he turned to his other interest. Relishing in the unexpected spikes of pleasure that surfaced each time one of his lost boys reported _her_ movements, or mentioned her name, or even when—in the moments just before dawn—the island; free of most distractions, fell silent, each movement diluted by sleep—he could _feel_ her. Clear as day, and as intoxicating as their first encounter.

A quick glance; no one was around. He leant forwards, out over the rippling surface, eyes glued to the smooth skin at his throat. Only his unnatural balance kept him from face-planting the water as he stretched further, lowering his face as he inspected his doppelgänger. A wave of disappointment swelled within him. His encounter with Emma was so vivid and fresh in his mind—yet his body no longer held any physical reminder. The cut—_barely more than a scratch_, the more realistic part of his mind added—had enthralled him for days.

It had been so long since he'd had any tangible proof of his mortality and as such, the line, pink and hardly visible held a perverse sort of fascination. Fingertips brushed the skin, no longer marred with an imperfection… perhaps he should have plucked at the skin as it attempted to heal, delaying the process—prolonging the exquisite itch; the constant reminder. Maybe, had the thought arisen sooner he could have picked and itched long enough to guaranty a scar, a line so thin and undetectable it would have been a secret all of his own.

Not that he lacked for want of secrets, but this could have been one on display, further heightening the high as he wore it for the world to see. Would anyone have even noticed? Idly he pondered whether his lost boys would say anything even had the mark drawn their gaze—they certainly hadn't commented when he returned, more roughed up than he ever allowed them to view him, fingers probing… stroking… _remembering._

The boy had noticed, he hadn't said anything, but the way his eyes danced, pride and _knowing_ glittering in those depths…

Peter had of course retaliated, relaxing his shoulders, arching his neck almost obscenely, a nail tracing the mark and _exhaling_. Henry's look of confusion had felt a lot like collecting a vial of fairy dust. _It felt like winning._

But now the mark was gone, and all he could think about was how to obtain another… something more permanent; a mark with _intent. _He wanted her. He wanted to be the complete focus of her world, even if it was just for a few precious seconds, as rage—white hot and consuming—shoved all thoughts of family, and love and _Henry_ straight out of her head. He wanted to feel the icy kiss of her blade again, for her to _want_ to hurt him the way he ached to _break_ her. This time it wouldn't be enough to simply have the blade at his throat, the sting caused by his own smugness as _he_ smirked and taunted and pressed back into the knife.

This time he'd get _her_ to spill blood, _his blood_, as her deliciously concealed fury—at him, at the world, at _herself_—caused her to forget her restraint, nudging her into a spectacular free fall into the darkness…into the _shadows._

"Boy's." He drawled quietly, no need to raise his voice. All those who were lost were _his_ and they would come when he called. "I'm in need of entertainment."

Their answering grins, dark and full of promise as they assembled around him, quickened his blood. He had found them, he had _made_ them. "Let's test out our foes."

~O~

Separating them was easy, hardly worth mentioning as the ex-queen and the star crossed lovers stumbled off after their own separate forms of torment—oblivious to the frantic cries of the _poor little lost girl_ as she hesitated; eyes darting between their separate paths.

_Who to follow?_ He crooned in her ear, the wind carrying his vicious message for her and her alone. _The ex-queen…? The Charming Prince…? Or the fairest of them all…?_

Almost immediately her expression hardened and she pivoted slightly on the spot, eyes darting up into the shadows until they rested confidently on him. The heat of her glare was like dragon fire, consuming and intimate in its intensity. His skin prickled as he dropped from his perch in the tree, bending at the knees to absorb the impact of the landing before straightening. He allowed a boyish grin to settle over his face. Let her see how pleased he was, let her see his confidence. She'd found him easily, even his boys couldn't spot him amongst the tree's—Neverland was his, he wasn't found unless he allowed it. Further proof that she was _his_—lost and hiding an inner darkness.

Time and time again she continued to show she was different, that she was _worth _his interest….now it was time to push her further. He leant backwards, arching against the tree, his posture casual, confident and unconcerned.

Briefly he flicked his eyes over the pirate. The man certainly didn't disappoint, he remained as alert and wary as he did years ago, when he'd fought tooth and nail to escape Neverland, and the games Pan played… but Peter didn't like how the pirate had edged closer to Emma, almost protectively. Pathetic, Emma didn't need protecting she needed to be challenged.

Pan raised an arm up above his head and rapped his knuckles back against the solid wood.

Instantly out of the foliage sprang the lost boys, with a pointed nod they worked to separate the two. A small group surrounded Emma, circling, keeping her from aiding the pirate as some of Pans more skilled boys subdued the man; abetted greatly by Neverlands tendency to draw the fighting spirit right out of those Pan felt _unworthy_ of a fair fight. Pan ignored the scathing look the pirate sent his way.

When Pan was confident the pirate—_thief_—wasn't going anywhere, arms bound behind his back, eyes spitting fire and curses dancing on his lips, Peter turned his full attention on Emma—noting with pleasure, that her gaze; whilst weary remained locked on him and not the pirate. It felt a little like bit like victory.

He held up a hand, splaying his fingers, "Five minutes. Survive."

Her quizzical look faded as one of the boys stepped forwards, drawing a small sword; ironically similar to the blade Emma herself carried. He _liked_ that she didn't hesitate as long as he'd thought she would before she drew her own sword, levelling it cautiously at the smaller boy before her. "Don't do it kid, I don't want to hurt you." She muttered, and he felt a surge of want at the way her eyes occasionally darted back to him, like she acknowledged he was the real danger here, and wanted him in her sights.

He donned one of his more charming smirks.

"But I will if I have to. Come on kid, don't be stupid." She continued, addressing the boy circling her. A valiant effort he supposed, but pointless.

The lost boy lunged and—

…_hit the dirt?_

Rolling his eyes, he signalled another, more experienced boy forwards. The fight lasted a little longer, but it seemed Emma was more experienced than he'd first imagined, and once again the boy ended up on the floor.

Intrigued Pan stalked forwards. It seemed without seriously—or really even injuring the boys at all, Emma had dropped them all in the dirt. _Interesting._ It was then, of course, that Pan caught the look in her eyes. The fire in his stomach roared to life. She was breathing hard, but stood confident, ready and waiting, her eyes alert but what drew his attention was the small glimmer of excitement. Whatever she said, whatever she told herself, all the lies and denials and masquerades, none of it mattered to Pan. He could _see_ her; saw how when push came to shove part of her relished the feeling of empowerment gained by standing tall as your opponent stared up at you, utterly defeated.

Maybe she noticed. Perhaps she saw the way his eyes ran along her quivering limbs; trembling with adrenalin, or how he, himself, was poised on his toes, eyes bright and wide with a readiness to throw himself forwards, to test his own reflexes against hers.

She threw the sword down. "Five minutes are up." Confident and challenging, daring him to go back on his word…

He laughed, loud and exhilarated. Just being in her _presence_ filled him with a buoyant energy he just couldn't quite find anywhere else…it was _intoxicating_. But she was right; she had lasted the full five minutes. Her competence at defending herself would need revisiting however; he flicked a glance at the pirate, preferably without a distraction.

"Boys," He called, grinning as they immediately broke the circle, whistling and whooping as they darted back into the forest.

"Hurry up and work out how the map works," he drawled, dancing a few steps closer to Emma, brushing through her almost palpable distaste.

"Oh yeah, why…?"

He leant closer until his skin blistered from the warmth of her, "_So you'll know where to find me_."


	3. Chapter 3

Slight change from canon, because I didn't quite like how Henry could suddenly hear the damn pipes at the end. I mean, in Henry's mind nothing should have changed, he'd already believed Neal was dead; and therefore unable to rescue him—but surely he knows Emma and his grandparents will always come for him. A 'dream' as Pan attempted to play it off shouldn't really have changed anything. So yeah, in this Henry still remains un-pipe-able. Huzzah!

Also the ending ran away from me a bit, this was supposed to be—well, I'm not really sure _what_ it was supposed to be, but whatever it was, it wasn't this. Still, hopefully it's slightly enjoyable.

~O~

Henry hadn't heard the music. The boy had been utterly deaf to the pipes hauntingly hypnotic tune, both soothing and enticing as it strolled through the night, ensnaring the minds of the other _little lost children._ Pan frowned. The _truest believer's _loyalties were proving more difficult to sway than Pan anticipated. Of course, he'd always known it wouldn't be easy; _the truest believer_ wasn't a title easily bestowed and it was only fitting for the boy's mind to be resilient to Pan's games.

Peter shrugged, resilient or not Henry would eventually see things his way. Peter always got his way in the end. Still—he needed to learn more about Henry's so called _family_… especially Emma. For some reason even though Emma had already abandoned Henry once, the boy remained steadfast in his belief in her. It didn't make sense. Abandonment wasn't something that went away, no excuses or apologies could ever be enough—because when it came down to it, even if it was only for a moment, abandonment meant that that someone had decided _not to fight for you_. A best chance…? He snorted to himself, what utter nonsense. Unless you can see the _future_ that _excuse_ falls by the wayside, there is no possible way of knowing if the so called 'best chance' is any better.

No, Peter knew from experience that the _only _chance anyone _ever_ had was to fight; with blades and fists and _teeth_ if that's what it took. That's why he knew with complete conviction he was going to win—he always won—because Peter wasn't _afraid._ Not of monsters, or nightmares, or Emma and her cluster of fools, he wasn't afraid to do whatever it tool; he'd ever rip _worlds_ apart if he had too. Emma could never hope to be as free, so bound by the fear of being alone and unwanted as she was.

Still she was posing more of a hindrance than he had predicted.

He mouthed the top of the pipes, humming quietly into them. His boys were all fast asleep and Pan used the quiet to gather his thoughts and plot. The stakes had risen, he thought with a thrum of excitement, with both of the boys' parents running around the island he'd have to be more careful when staging confrontations. He needed to draw Henry away from his family. He needed Henry to be _his_, to _trust him_—like all the lost boys did: and a small dose of fear wouldn't hurt either.

Pan got to his feet, still humming a steady tune into his pipes. The shadows welcomed him, masking not only his form but his scent, breath and footsteps as he slipped through the forest— and nothing not even the wind dared hinder his casual strides. It whistled through him as if he were a mere spectre rather than blood and bone. He was untouchable; to everything.

A soft glow from dying embers pulsed into his vision causing him to slow. Initially he thought to take to the treetops, but dismissed the thought almost as quickly. He wanted to feel the warmth of his newest guests. Therefore with the same stout confidence that laced his very veins he strode into the centre of the little camp.

A certain stillness settled over the camp, the shadows that had flickered and danced in the dying light froze in their movements, collectively acknowledging Pan's power and ownership and, unthinkingly, awaited instruction. A tilt of his head sent them spiralling through the forest, chasing the heels of the forests natural quiet; clawing and scratching, leaving trembling trees and a chilling path of vehement silence in their wake.

Content in the knowledge Henry was adequately guarded Pan surveyed the sleeping figures.

Snow White and her Prince lay entwined, their bodies pressed impossibly close to one another, as if they were attempting to become one—no doubt seeking comfort against the insecurities and fears Neverland _oh so helpfully_ revives. Even now Pan took pleasure in the uneasy set of their features, not even 'true love' was safe in Neverland.

He sneered, _true love_—what a disgustingly adult concept.

Next he turned to the pirate and couldn't help but smirk. Instead of sprawled out on the floor like his companions the pirate was leant against a tree; guarding his back, with his sword across his lap, his only hand resting lightly on the hilt. Pleased Pan stalked forwards, past the evil queen—he had no interest in her, though her temper could be fun to play with—and came to a stop before the pirate; at least someone was taking his Island seriously. Still, had the pirate honestly thought the tree would offer any sort of protection? This island was _his_, the trees were _his_, he would have thought the thief would have learnt that buy now.

Steady fingers gently eased the blade from the pirates possession, pausing only momentarily in the slight twitch of the pirates brow. Too easy, Peter wrinkled his nose, strangely he expected better-_how unusual?_

No matter, the pirate was like an old toy, there was a certain nostalgia; once the man had been so fun to play with, but no more. Pan knew all the pirates tricks, knew how he thought—how he reacted… why linger on old relics when Pan had such newer, shinier toys?

Sword loosely gripped in his hand he ghosted over to the final figure—his favourite. She was laid out on a mat not far from the fire, but a considerable distance from each of her companions—so alone even when surrounded by allies, surely even she could see it? _She wasn't one of them_—the grown up's, the rescue committee—she was a _lost girl_, one of Neverlands very own: _his_. Why was it taking her so long to realise?

One of her hands rested, fingertips slightly curled, palm upwards, inviting, next to her head. Cocking his head to the side Pan gently pressed the tip of the sheathed sword the pale skin of her palm, her fingers flexed slightly in a grabbing motion. Pan let out an amused puff of breath. Daringly he trailed the tip over her wrist, drawing a smooth line all the way down to the crook of her elbow. Perhaps it was his turn to mark her? As payment for the scratch she'd given him.

She shifted, drawing her arm in closer to her body and turning her head away from him; strands of hair fell over her features, as if subconsciously she was hiding from him. Pan felt an unnecessary spark of anger. She _couldn't_ hide from him. Not here. Pan stepped over her body, so that she was once again facing him. The sword arched up slowly, barely a hair's breath from her cheek as Pan used it to lift the strands from her face and sweep them over her shoulder. _Better._

Her features, initially relaxed—or as relaxed as was possible in Neverland—slowly shifted into a frown. Small wrinkles creased her brow. Intrigued Pan crouched, sword otherwise forgotten on the floor as his fingers hovered over the slight downturn of her lips. "_Emma,_" he crooned softly, "_Can you feel it Emma? An enemy in your camp? A presence by your side?" _

He traced the air above her lips, his mind focused on nothing but the warm puffs of air tickling his fingertips. He wondered, briefly, whether, if he allowed himself to feel Neverlands stark chill, would the warmth spread throughout his body, as if he was stood by a fire, or remain focused in his fingers? _"Where's your feisty spirit now Emma? I could kill you—all of you, right here and right now and none of you could do a thing to stop me. I won't of course—that wouldn't be any fun, but _I could_. Perhaps I should, maybe Henry would give in easier if he knew you were dead—knew a rescue wouldn't be coming? What do you think Emma? Shall I do away with his old family in order to make room for his new one?" _

He trailed his fingers down over her jaw, always hovering just above her skin so as not to wake her, yet still able to savour her warmth, and then down across her neck.

He took a moment to steady himself, the thrill of danger—knowing she _could_ wake at any moment—was clouding his judgement. But he couldn't move; he had to try and understand what it was about her that warranted such attention. Ever since he'd met her she'd been there, flitting across the back of his mind, enticing his thoughts away from Henry and magic. While awake she was a flaming beacon, intense and dangerous and utterly captivating. He _had_ to go to her, _had_ to taunt and challenge and witness her defiance—

But asleep… it was almost like she was missing something. She looked _vulnerable—_weak_._ He tilted his head, eyes following the path his fingers took as they danced across her cheek, mapping her features. Weak things didn't hold his attention, weak things weren't worth his time, yet he couldn't pull his gaze from the smooth curve of her jaw, or the slight crease between her brows.

"_Why won't Henry give up on you?" _He continued, words hushed and whispered, _"You left him once, and I can sense the pain and anger twisting its way through his very core, but it doesn't affect him as it does the lost boys. He remains separate from us, isolated, as if he's waiting for something—but you aren't coming to save him, are you Emma? Can't you feel it, Neverlands already ripping through those walls of yours; it's clawing at the foundations and raising your defences to the ground. Soon you'll be so wrapped up in your own pain, you won't even remember Henry's name."_

His words, like poison, stretch unhindered through the small space between them, twisting and coiling into daggers aimed to pierce her heart. "_I'll take your parents." _Pan promised viciously.

"_Your lover,_" He added spitefully as he sent a glare at the unworthy thief snoring quietly off to the side, "_I'll make sure you're as alone as you feel, and then, then I'll take your dreams—I'll send my shadows slinking into the deepest parts of your mind and rip them clean out of you." _

The anger had arisen unexpectedly, but Pan welcomed it, used the fire it lit in his blood to wrench his hand away from Emma's sleeping form. His words however, continued to fall from his lips, "_You'll have nothing Emma, nothing. No family, no hopes. Nothing." _He leant closer, his breath ghosting her ear, "_…only me."_

Spent, he pushed back onto his feet, taking the sword with him. After a quick rummage he finally procured the map from within one of the various bags littered around the camp site. He scoffed; careless. They would have to do much better than this, and quickly, before he decided they weren't worth the game he'd created for them.

A few of the shadows, perhaps sensing he was almost done began to retake their intrusive positions around the camp, relying on the moon now that the dying embers were spent.

Pan pinned the map to a random tree with the pirates' blade. He _wanted_ them to know he'd been here, he wanted them to know they weren't safe; _Neverland _wasn't safe. With a last glance at Emma's still form, he reached into his shirt and retrieved the pipes from where he'd stashed them. He set off, lazy in his steps, a chilling tune in his wake.

The notes, low and haunting, lingered in the cool air.

~O~

Still gripped by sleep, Emma shivered.


End file.
